“Take good care of your Auntie Helena, Jimmy,” said I, “and help her aft along the rail.”
I followed up the companionway, and saw her going slowly, head down, her coat of lace blown wide; her hand at her throat, and sobbing in what Jimmy and I both knew was fear of the storm.
“Have they got everything they need there, Jimmy?” I asked, as he returned.
“Sure. And the old girl’s going to have a peach of a one this time—she can’t hardly rock in a rockin’ chair ’thout gettin’ seasick. I think it’s great, don’t you? Look at her buck into ’em!”
Jimmy and his friend shared this immunity from mal de mer. I could see Jean now helping haul down our burgee, and the deck boy, Willy, in his hurried work about the boat. Williams, I could not see. But Peterson was now calm and much in his element, for a better skipper than he never sailed a craft on the Great Lakes.
“I think she’s going to blow great guns,” said he, “and like enough the other engine’ll pop any minute.”
“Yes?” I answered, stepping to the wheel. “In which case we go to Davy Jones about when, Peterson?”
“We don’t go!” he rejoined. “She’s the grandest little ship afloat, and not a thing’s the matter with her.”
“Can we make the channel and run inside the long key below the Côte Blanche Bayou?”
“Sure we can. You’d better get the covers off the boats, and see the bottom plugs in and some water and supplies shipped aboard—but there’s not the slightest danger in the world for this boat, let me tell you that, sir. I’ve seen her perform before now, and there’s not a storm can blow on this coast she won’t ride through.”